


Sugar and Spice

by muse2write



Series: Tales of the Commanders of the Apocalypse Army [2]
Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muse2write/pseuds/muse2write
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a tale of the Commanders of the Apocalypse Army. Abbie and Ichabod are busy trying to hide an army in the Catskills, so any moments of normalcy are greatly welcomed. Takes place about a year before part 1. Pure fun fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar and Spice

**Author's Note:**

> Here's Part 2. No idea how many parts there are going to be, but this one was just pure fluff, inspired by fall and this continuing storyline. This one takes place about a year before "For the Sake of One Lost Soul." If you haven't read that one yet, it might be best to do that, but you should be able to read this one with little confusion. Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to Fox. Ben belongs to me.

           

 

           

             “You know, if we make it through this alive, they’re not going to give us a medal.”

 

            The voice pierces Abigail Mill’s (surprisingly) pleasant dreams, and she blinks awake, rolling over to gaze at the cabin’s other occupant. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.” She says wryly, and across the room, her sister snorts and turns her head just enough to glare.

 

            “Do you think that anyone is going to believe that we stopped the apocalypse?” Jenny has clearly been thinking about this for a few hours, and now she’s on a tear. “We’ve already been branded as religious nutjobs!”

 

            _As if that’s any different from what you’ve been for the last few years?_ Abbie wants to ask, but knows that’s the wrong can of worms to open this early in the morning. The pieces of sky she can see through the window are already pink and orange, shading to blue: the sun has been up for awhile then. Rubbing a hand over her face, Abbie blows out a long breath. “‘Rend to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s,’” she reminds her sister.

 

            Jenny purses her lips. “Mark 12:17,” she responds. She frowns disapprovingly. “You’re not helping.”

 

            “What’s gotten into you this morning?” Abbie demands, sitting up. The covers fall away, and she shivers slightly. The cabin is well insulated, and has a decent heater, but it’s cold up here in the mountains now that autumn is finally here, and the sun isn’t far enough up yet to completely warm up the day.

 

            Abbie considers her sister. Usually, Jenny is not the naysayer. After all, she was arrested for trying to steal supplies for the End of Days. Why does she suddenly care what other people think?

 

            “You don’t want to go back to the psych ward,” Abbie realizes.

 

            Jenny glares. They don’t talk about this. “I’m not going to fight off all the evil in the world just for the world to turn around and shove me in a padded room again,” she snarls, sitting up as well. Her hair is frizzing slightly around her face. Normally, Abbie would tease her about it, but not now.

 

            “Do you think I want this?” Abbie asks. “Do you think I _asked_ to be a leader for an army—an army I don’t know how to lead, by the way! Do you think I want to be hiding here, unable to go home, to have everyone call me crazy?”

 

            Jenny considers her solemnly, then raises her eyebrows. “Now you know how I’ve felt for the last few years.” She says quietly, and the silence that falls between them is the heaviest of curtains.

 

            Abbie winces. _Shit_. “It’s too early to be having this conversation,” she grouses, rubbing her face again. She hates dodging conversations, but they’ve become masters of this, she and Jenny. “It’s too early to have this conversation without coffee,” she amends, seeing Jenny’s “I know when you’re avoiding me” look. She’s seen it too much in the last year.

 

            Jenny lets it slide with only a furrowed brow. “You want to brave the mess tent for that sludge they call coffee?”

 

            Abbie flops back onto her cot. “Not really. I think I’d kill anyone for some real coffee right now.”

 

            Jenny grins at her sister and pulls on an old sweatshirt. “You and me both.”

 

            As if on cue, a light knock sounds on the connecting door to Ichabod’s room, and a dark head pokes into their room. “Commander? Captain?”

 

            Abbie sits up again and smiles at the dark head, even though the young man is studiously staring at the floor. “It’s okay, Ben. You can come in.” The dark head lifts, and he flashes her an embarrassed smile. Ben had gotten an eyeful once or twice after barging in without knocking, and now, he only lifts his gaze from the floor when Abbie gives him the all-clear.

 

            Ichabod’s brother’s descendant has clearly been up long before them. He looks like he’s just come from being outside: his cheeks are bright pink, his dark hair is tousled, and his blue eyes—exactly like Ichabod’s—are shining with excitement. “We wondered if you were up,” he says by way of explanation, then turns to glance over his shoulder. “It’s okay!”

 

            Ben steps all the way into the room, leaving the door open for someone else to step through. The tall, lean figure who appears is a familiar one, and Abbie relaxes with a smile at the sight of her partner and fellow Witness.

 

            He may be a man out of a time, but this morning, Ichabod Crane looks more modern than usual. Possibly because he is wearing a long, black, wool greatcoat over his usual Revolutionary attire. His blue eyes light on Abbie, and he smiles. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

           

            Abbie returns the “good morning, Crane,” absently, her dark gaze fixed on the cardboard holder in his hands. “Crane, is that what I think it is?” She asks slowly, inching towards the edge of the bed.

 

            “Ah, yes!” Ichabod smiles proudly, blue eyes glowing, holding the tray of four drinks out towards them. “Starbucks!”

 

            At the familiar word and sight of those paper cups, both Mills sisters are out of bed and standing before him. Ichabod chuckles, handing the steaming beverages over carefully. Jenny takes her latte and goes back to perch on the edge of the bed, sipping it slowly. Abbie reaches out and grasps her cup, her fingers brushing against Ichabod’s for a moment, and she can feel how cold they are.

 

            Then the smell curls out of the hole in the lid of the cup, and everything else is forgotten. “Pumpkin Spice?” She asks incredulously, and Ichabod’s proud smile widens even further, and he nods.

 

            “I remembered it is your favorite beverage to consume when autumn is upon us,” Ichabod tells her, clearly delighted with himself. Taking one for himself—Abbie knows it’s some sort of tea—and passing the last to Ben—probably a latte like Jenny’s—he stands at ease, all long lines and hidden muscle. He takes a sip and smiles, long lashes dark as he glances down at her, where she is still in paroxysms of delight over this unexpected surprise.

 

            Ichabod gazes at her, and seems to take in her state of undress for the first time. His cheeks color a bit, and he hurriedly glances away, glaring sternly at Ben. “We shouldn’t be here! They aren’t properly clothed!”

 

            Abbie glances down at her worn camisole and loose sweatpants. “Crane,” she says soothingly, letting the sugar and spices curl around her tongue with another sip, “relax. Besides,” she adds, “you’ve seen me in less.”

 

            This is the wrong thing to say. If anything, Ichabod’s cheeks take on a darker shade of pink that Abbie knows isn’t from the wind, and behind him, Ben’s eyes are as wide as saucers. Abbie risks a glance over her shoulder, and finds Jenny smirking at them both. She closes her eyes. _Shit._ There’s not enough caffeine in her system yet to deal with this.

           

            “You know,” she hastily adds, feeling a bit discomforted herself, now that Ichabod is studying the wood beneath his boots, refusing to look at her, “when we had to find the Sandman.”

 

            “This is not a proper conversation,” Ichabod says awkwardly, glancing up once at her, and then away. “Those were…extenuating circumstances, Lieutenant. I have intruded on your bedchamber at an hour that you should be sleeping.”

 

            Abbie chuckles. “Hardly, Crane. There’s too much to do. This is a nice break, though.” She adds, taking a longer swallow of her drink. It tastes of spice and home and mornings driving Ichabod to work, and for a moment, Abbie can forget the chaotic mess her life as turned into.

 

            “Totally worth the two hour trip,” Ben declares happily into the silence, slurping his drink, and Abbie turns to him, wide-eyed.

 

            “What? How far did you go for this?” Abbie asks, wide-eyed. They are deep in the campgrounds of the Catskills, their army broken into bits and hidden in pockets, to keep from being to noticeable. They’re not the National Guard or any governmental sanctioned task force, and it just seems wrong to try to pass them off as some sort of church group, although that’s probably the closest description of what they are.

 

            Ichabod looks abashed under her scrutiny. “Sleepy Hollow,” he tells her lowly, and Abbie sputters into her Pumpkin Spice latte. Behind her, Jenny chokes.

 

            “ _What_?” Abbie exclaims, glaring at her partner. “Crane, what were you thinking? There’s probably a Starbucks at the nearest gas station! Why would you go two and half hours back to Sleepy Hollow?!”

 

            “For this,” Crane says quietly, unfazed by her rant, unbuttoning his coat. When he shrugs it off, draping it over her desk chair, Abbie stares.

 

            “Crane,” she chokes, nearly spilling her precious cup, “what are you _wearing_?”

 

            Ichabod pauses in pulling something out of his coat pocket, sugar packets and little containers of creamer spilling out as well. He blinks at her, then his brow furrows, and the corners of his lips drop in a puzzled frown. He glances down at himself. “Is this not appropriate attire? Benjamin assured me it was, and after two years in this century, I thought…”

 

            It’s not the first time Abbie’s seen him in modern clothes, but since he wears his original Revolutionary uniform so religiously, it’s a bit of shock every time. This time, he’s in dark jeans—how did she not notice those weren’t his uniform pants?—and a black sweater. The sweater has a slight v-neck, and the clothes are clearly Ben’s; the jeans are just a little too snug, the sweater a little too short—Ben’s shorter than Ichabod by a few inches, and so the hem of the sweater rises up a little every time Ichabod moves, exposing flashes of pale skin.

 

            It’s not the first time Abbie’s seen him in modern clothes, but this time, she drinks it in fully, the lid of the Starbucks cup pressing into her lower lip, completely forgotten. She is not ogling her partner. She is not. It’s just the shock, that’s all.

 

            Her observing gaze lingers a little too long, and when her gaze again meets Ichabod’s, it’s her turn to flush a little. “What did you find?”

 

            Ichabod extends a rolled up newspaper to her silently, and this time, it’s his turn to examine her contemplatively. Abbie busies herself with the paper to keep from blushing any more. Jenny and Ben watch with avid interest. It isn’t often that they’re privy to mornings rife with such heavy tension and lingering looks.

            Abbie unrolls the paper to find Sleepy Hollow’s news spread out in front of her. “Why’d you bring me a copy of _The Hollow_?” She asks. Cell reception may be spotty, but she can still download papers to her phone if she needs to.

 

            “It was given to me in an envelope from the captain’s office,” Ichabod tells her gravely, blue eyes transmitting a message only she can understand.

 

            “Captain?” Ben swings his head confusedly between the Mills sisters as Abbie crosses over to her desk to put her precious drink down for a moment in order to tear open the paper. The faint white traces of whipped cream dot his upper lip. “The captain’s already here.”

 

            “The police captain I—used—to work for,” Abbie explains absently, flipping to the center fold of the paper. On the left, there is a large article with a blaring headline: **IS CAPTAIN IRVING HIDING SOMETHING? It’s a sad day when we can’t trust our own police force, says leading town spokesperson.**

Abbie snorts at that, then runs her finger down the crease. Under the pressure of her finger, marks become visible, and she exhales loudly. Ichabod tenses as well, watching the muscles in her shoulders flex as she shoves away from the desk.

 

            “Well? What news from Captain Irving?”

 

            Abbie gives him a slow smile. “He’ll help us, when and if he can.”

 

            Ichabod matches her relieved smile. “That is good news indeed!”

 

            A small square of stiff paper flutters to the ground as Abbie gathers up the newspaper, handing the thin page of newsprint over to Ichabod so he can put his photographic memory to good use. He studies the code for a moment, nods once, and hands the paper back to Abbie.

 

            Abbie balls up the newspaper and rifles through her desk drawer until she comes up with a lighter. She clicks the lighter once, and the flames begin to eagerly lick at the paper. While it burns, Abbie scoops up her now-cool cup and examines the Starbucks business card in her hand.

 

            “Crane, what’s this?”

 

            Ichabod does a double-take. “Ah.” He looks puzzled.

 

            Abbie tilts the card one way and then the other. “This looks like a phone number from someone named ‘Heather.’” Despite her attempts to be straight-faced and interrogative, she’s failing; her lips keep curling up on their own accord.

 

            Ichabod meets her gaze, absolutely guileless. “The server at the Starbucks provided me this card and told me if I ever required anything, I should call her. I believe she may have been implying something other than pledging help to our cause.”

 

            He’s so adorably perplexed that Abbie can’t help it; she begins to giggle. Behind Ichabod, Ben is biting his knuckles as his shoulders shake with suppressed laughter, and behind Abbie, Jenny is doing her best to disguise her laughter as coughs into her now-empty coffee cup.

 

            Ichabod tolerates their laughter at his expense well; after all, it’s been two years, and there are still some social nuances of the twenty-first century that he hasn’t fully grasped. Finally, Abbie takes pity on him and calms down. “It’s all right, Crane,” she tells him. “She was hoping you would court her.”

 

            Ichabod blanches at that, clearly outraged. “Lieutenant, surely you’re not serious? Men find it uncomfortable to be propositioned by women in such a manner, do they not?”

 

            Abbie’s pretty sure she just heard Jenny mutter, “I am serious, and don’t call me ‘Shirley,’” behind her back, but she’s too busy smoothing Ichabod’s ruffled feathers at the moment. Sometimes, he really does remind her of the bird his surname recalls. “We talked about dating a few years ago, Crane,” she reminds him. “Remember? We watched _The Bachelor_.”

 

            Ichabod stares at her, brows furrowed. “I thought that was a farce, a comedy for entertainment purposes.”

 

            Abbie giggles again, shaking her head. “You know, Crane, it kinda is.” Ichabod looks even more puzzled. Giving up, she drains the last of her Pumpkin Spice latte in one gulp and glances out the window. The sun is fully over the trees, and she knows that messages will be showing up soon. Time to get to work; her ragtag band of misfits won’t govern themselves.

 

            “Time for work,” she announces, and at that, Jenny rises to her feet, tugging on her boots as she does so, having pulled her hair into a ponytail at some point. She walks past Abbie, clapping Ben on the shoulder as she does so. “Come on, kid, let’s let the Divine Duo get to work.” As she slides past Abbie, she mutters, “You watched _The Bachelor_ with him?”

 

            “Shut up,” Abbie orders lightly, knowing that Jenny is going to tease her mercilessly about this for months. “He wanted to know about twenty-first century dating rituals.”

 

            “But, seriously,” Jenny continues in a low voice, flicking a glance towards Ichabod, “ _The Bachelor_? Why didn’t you just take him out on a date yourself?”

 

            This time, Abbie glares at her. “Don’t you have work to do?”

 

            Jenny taps two fingers against her forehead in a lazy salute. “Aye aye, captain.”

 

            “Jenny?” Her sister pauses, and Abbie takes a breath. “‘They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.’”

 

            “Isaiah 2:3-4.” Jenny’s voice is low, and she nods, as if that’s what she needed to hear.  

 

            Abbie watches her pull Ben out the front door, then turns to her partner. “Ready for another day of saving the world?”

 

            The smile Ichabod gives her is pure and brilliant. “Of course.”

 

**_SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH_ **

 

            Ben keeps easy pace with Jenny as she strides away from the main cabin, heading towards a low tool shed. “Is that betting pool still open in the 32nd Company?” The captain asks, and Ben chuckles, leaning against the wall.

 

            “Of course,” he tells her, smooth and sure, and Jenny gives him a smile over her shoulder as she pulls open the doors of the shed, exposing their arsenal.

 

            “You sound like Crane.”

 

            Ben snorts, a smile tugging at his lips. “Of course I do. What date do you want to wager?”

 

            Jenny plucks a machine gun from the wall, running her hands over the barrel speculatively, clearly weighing her options. “Next New Year’s Eve.”

 

            Ben raises an eyebrow. “That late? Are you sure you know them?”

 

            Jenny raises one sardonic brow. “I think I know my sister.”

 

            Ben spreads his hands in surrender. “Of course, Captain.”

 

            Silence falls, then Ben chuckles. Jenny turns to him, this time with a long machete in her hands. It has intricate metal patterns drawn into the hilt. “What?”

 

            “You should have seen him when I referred to Abbie as his wife to the truck driver who gave us a ride,” Ben grins proudly, his blue eyes glowing.

 

            Jenny places the machete back on the wall and grins in return, her dark eyes glittering with anticipation. “Tell me everything.” 

 

_Fin_


End file.
